


The Pretenses of the East Wind.

by RationalistRomantic (Chryses)



Series: Fragments [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambigous - Freeform, As in it's not a large concept in the story, Brit-Picked, F/M, First Meeting(s), Friends to Lovers, Hate to Love, Implicit Soulmate AU, Irrational Childhood Hate, M/M, Might provide companion pieces, Mostly AU of sorts, Off-stage minor character death, On-stage major/minor (not Sherlock or John) character death, Oneshot, Or not regarded for other characters other than Sherlock and John, Slow Burn, Soulmate Trials, The Great Game - semi AU, Tiny bits of ASIP, Unreliable Narrator(s), childhood angst, lots of subtext, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:26:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6868450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryses/pseuds/RationalistRomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t like this.” He confesses quietly, because only John is permitted to hear all of this, all the words Sherlock himself is incapable of screaming towards a large body of ocean or... people.</p><p>“You don’t like a lot of things.” John whispers back.</p><p>“I don’t like people, and yet” he curses internally that a thin sheet had developed behind his closed eyelids. “ - here you are.”</p><p>“Shut up.” John replies with a chuckle, voice still soft, and tender. He grips more firmly on the hold he had on Sherlock's waist. “You like having me around.”</p><p>“Having been assigned a perpetual mother hen for it all.” He finds himself humming. “Mummy could’ve done worse.”</p><p>However, John changes the subject anyways, neck transitioning to a nice shade of pink.</p><p>“So…” He begins slowly. “I’m not people, then?”</p><p>“No,” Sherlock replies in meaningful reminiscence, watching John watch him with awe, with reverence, with love. Watching himself be reflected in them, mirroring the same expression that only John’s allowed to witness. “- you’re not.”</p><p>Or</p><p>A soulmate AU of sorts where the first time John met Sherlock was not the first time they've met. Though it could be arguable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pretenses of the East Wind.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello!
> 
> So this is what I've been working for the past few weeks, whilst ignoring my other works that are due for an update (oops). Unbeta'd, however most errors should've been fixed due to having tear down the whole thing bit by bit, and having it read to me (via Word Counter). But should there be any changes that I could make regarding a particularly obvious error, please notify me as soon as you can. Other than that, please enjoy the fruits of my labour.

-

 

It’s raining again.

 

Or at least it has been for quite a whilst. Maybe a week. Two? There rarely came a day in which London is free of rainy days. Which is why it had been a marvel when it did come. The event had been revered during springtime when a lark of birds headed east, flocking precariously, swinging to and fro along with other chicks and their mothers.

 

It didn’t seem like much at the time, but being granted sumptuous amounts of isolation can lead to long hours of thinking about everything, and nothing at all. The whole thing had been intermittent, and irregular like a long echo of sound amongst raging winds - a calm beneath the storm, as the cliches have dictated. But even then, he’d been denied even the storm. He shouldn’t have used such a morbid metaphor in juxtapose to the very sedentary life he had been granted after living off of blood-filled highs, and large doses of adrenaline for his chosen profession of army surgeon, however it felt fitting in a way. A pretty even trade-off, but not a very fair one at that.

 

So now, here he is, with his service gun tucked inside a box under his bed for safe measures, a blog that he supposes he should’ve gotten started on, and sodden bills piled haphazardly on the only piece of cheap furniture he owned, and it’s raining.

 

The rain in particular had been the very type that can soak fabric within seconds of exposure, alike to having to bathe with having clothes on in public. The experience wouldn’t have been a first, but there’s something quite endearing about having to watch someone else other than yourself to have to go through that, and be reminded of a wet cat with tangled, flattened fur.

 

He hardly notices himself being watched until he misses the sharp, grey eyes, disappearing behind another toss of dark, cowlick hairs that clung to his face. Then meeting John’s eyes briefly, rolling them as though he could read the very thoughts from his head before heading off towards the next elevator available - the very one that John had been waiting for, for about a minute, his thumb still slightly hovering  at the “up” symbol, even until the opportunity had ended as soon as the elevator had closed.

 

He presses the button again for good measures, vaguely realizing that the bloke had taken his only way towards the flat - that or having to trudge through five flights of stairs with slightly soggy pants, and a shoddy leg that should’ve been healed all those months ago. His therapist claims that all the pain has been figments of creation from his mind, emulating the pain of an injured, arthritic leg. Unfortunately, even with that knowledge, he has yet to regain full mobility of his leg without relying on stable, solid sources to keep himself up. He really should be getting another therapist.

 

He grips harder at the handle of his cane on the way, unconsciously seeking warmth from his worn, although much treasured skull key chain that habitually remained tucked underneath his wallet inside his left pocket. He’s always been the tactile sort.

 

-

 

“I suppose one shouldn’t have been surprised.”

 

For a second, John had been unable to articulate whether he was being spoken to, until the voice spoke once more in a low timber.

 

“As to why you’re mimicking hearing impairment, I regret slightly that I’ve spoken first. Though I’m not sure myself as to why I did, considering I’ve rarely began conversations with anyone in particular. Well, I say anyone.” And it came with an intangible depreciating chuckle right after as though he’d said something particularly clever.

 

John turns towards the left of his balcony to the same bloke he had stumbled upon prior his entry towards the flat, tensing, before pasting on a smile as he leaned forward to spectate a few pedestrians, apparently due to his inability to speak like an ordinary being due to malpractice.

 

“Oh, it’s you.”

 

“Naturally.” And the tone sounded haughty, almost annoyed by the fact that John hadn’t acknowledged him particularly.

 

But before John’s able to decipher a response, the man disappears as fast as he appeared.

  


-

 

In knowing whom his next door neighbour had been, John would’ve expected that he’d be able to see the lad often, but that doesn’t appear to be the point. In fact, he doesn’t see anymore of the bloke. It had been two and a half weeks since he’s spoken to him. John shrugs off the feeling of loneliness for an empty stomach, and nothing else. Why else would would he be interested in the profession otherwise?

 

As to why he’d expected anything from the meagre conversation that they’d had would lead to something other than having to look at the walls of his bedsit still continues to baffle John.

 

On a day where he passes by his own flat by accident, he doesn’t notice that he had been shoving his own key through the parallel keyhole until he catches sight of unfamiliar digits. He flushes immediately, cussing lowly under his breath, and apologizing to nobody in particular before entering his own flat. He falls asleep to nothing but bathed grey.

 

-

 

The moment he finds himself stranded in his balcony after another particularly bland day for locum, John had been studying a particular nest that had been blown down by the wind not a day ago before a particular thump had echoed throughout the flat beside his own.

 

The first few weeks had been, well, like any other day. John rarely noticed, or at least that’s what he kept telling himself, staring wistfully towards the sky.

 

On the first month and a half - not that he’s been keeping extra attention towards the passing days - he’d expected that his haughty neighbour had already vacated the premises. Though the latter had proven to be contradictory due to the fact that on the previous day, there had been a package that was meant to be dropped off in the adjacent flat. John tried not to smile too much on his way back.

 

When it reached the third month - present day, John had been reaching the end of his patience. He had to change to medical scrubs twice due to two drippy-nose twins, and one old lady who found it amusing to puke on their doctors. The aforementioned had caught him off guard, which is why he had to drop off at the nearest cleaners to prevent staining to one of his five shirts. Sigh.

 

_Thump!_

 

And there it was again.

 

John dares not hope.

 

_Thump! Swoosh!_

 

And he sees a familiar head of brown curls being pushed towards the furthest end of the balcony by a decrepit man, much older than John. His face was obscured from visible view when he leans towards his neighbour, whispering something non-discernable, before backing away almost smugly out of the opening. The dark-haired bloke droops towards the door back to his own flat without uttering a word, murmuring faint grumbles and wheezes out of earshot.

 

John gripped on the stale plaster of his balcony, willing the insensible urge to check on the other man. He most certainly was not the bloke's keeper, so why would he be driven to such irrational urges to go and check whether he had been okay. Sometimes his passion towards the health of others precedes his ability to consider any rational actions rather than serve and protect.

  


-

 

The shot was fired, even before he can think of the consequences to his own action. Though in fairness, he could hardly be blamed, overhearing from the Detective Inspectors about a string of suicides that circled around asphyxiation, and something drug-related. To others, it might be conspiratorially perceived as the inner-workings of a serial-killer, coercing them to their own demise as a sort of cleansing ritual to rid the world of tainted figures. The media hadn’t exactly been the most reliable of sources.

 

He ran towards his point of entry before any sort of investigation could commence. It was only through the slightest of luck that as he was pushing through the doors that a silver-haired bloke was directing his team in, not once paying mind to John’s convenient timing to be in the same place of where a suspected gun shooting had occurred.

 

He sees a familiar face swaddled on a bright orange blanket, talking to the bloke he’d seen prior, which he guesses had been the main detective for the operation.

 

He felt eyes on his back as the crowd dispersed, whilst he paced towards the nearest tube.

  


-

 

The next time he hears of his neighbour, there was a talk around the faculty staff of a tell-tale explosion that claimed to have come from around the general area where he was inhabiting. Coincidentally, he had been taking extra shifts to fulfill his month’s end rent, along with the new jumper to replace his old one that he conveniently have grazed during his ‘inconspicuous’ getaway, which meant that he had been at Bart's more than his own bedsit to be able to notice any sort of explosion.

 

-

 

“Did you manage to get the powder burn out of your fingers?”

 

The question came randomly, when he has barely settled on his seat of choice, close to the balcony.

 

“Sorry, what?” Came his reply, not bothered in the least about his lack of manners. If the other man had insisted to talk through this method, then John would be more than willing to accommodate.

 

But the lad merely continued, disregarding John’s query either by ignoring him, or not hearing him altogether, or both.

 

“Doubt you’d receive a penalty for your first illegal offence, but let’s avoid the court case.”

 

John smirked. If the bloke only knew.

 

“Though in fairness, I should consider expressing my gratitude, however inconveniently timed your shot had been.”

 

And he was out of his passable position in seconds.

 

“You were about to take that damn pill, what else was I supposed to do?”

 

“So it was you.” Crap. He didn’t know he was being interrogated in the first place.

 

John shifted uncomfortably from his position, but consciously maintaining his ramrod posture at its peak. He was a bloody Captain, goddamnit. He _will_ keep himself in line.

 

“I’m unarmed, if you want to turn me in.”

 

The bloke sighs, whilst looking amused by the second, regarding John with renewed interest.

 

“At the moment, yes. But we both know given your current location the approximate time that you’d be able to decapitate me for my silence would be about 3, maybe 4 seconds? It would depend on just how far you’ve hidden your regulation pistol under your bedsit.” And the bloke had barely even paused for a breath, almost as though he’s expecting John to disappear any second with a salutary “piss off” before he makes his daring escape. “Also, might I remind you that you would make the most horrid of killers if you simply announce your lack of artillery.”

 

“That was meant for assurance, you know?” John finds himself replying. “In case you were keeping my secret because you’re afraid that you might get shot at.”  

 

Unexpectedly, the curly-haired man just chuckles lowly under his breath.

 

“What?” John finds himself asking.

 

“You follow me to some college that you haven’t seen during your younger years because of some preconceived notion of fulfilling your duty to her Majesty’s - oh! That’s interesting.” Something must’ve showed in John’s face for the bloke to reconsider his theory. “You weren’t there because you wanted to catch a killer...did you?” And the question sounded definite, like he’s already aware of the situation, and was just thinking out loud. “No. You were there to kill him.”

 

John clenches one of his fist in quiet agitation.

 

“No.” Breathe through your nose, that’s it.

 

“Then what for will you willingly risk your own freedom for a stranger whom you’ve barely spoken to?”

 

“Because he was going to kill you.”

 

“I went there willingly. He had a shoddy gun; I knew it was a fake by glancing briefly at it.” His tone sounded airy, like his own safety hadn’t occurred to him. “So why then?”

 

“Because I could.”

 

And he was pacing towards his coat that hung messily on the corner of his bed, and hastily slamming the door. Air would be good at the moment. Air always makes things better.

  


-

 

He was just about to take a sip of his barmy coffee, until he catches sight of a familiar face at the seat he regularly passes during his pre-afternoon stroll. He hasn’t seen John yet, but being distinctly aware of being scanned, he looks towards John’s direction before narrowing on a target, brightening without having to smile, before gathering his untouched takeaway, along with a hot beverage with the trademark cup-sleeve.

 

John tries hard not to flinch at the movement. He’s not quite ready to talk to the lad just yet.

 

“Quite a pleasant little spot, this.” He begins, looking a bit timid, which veered to be slightly off character on the short time that John has known him. “Haven’t gone through this area since the last encounter I had with a slimy monk, who turned out to be an assassin to kill off his own enemies.” He follows through John’s pace, regarding him with his full attention as he spoke. “I should tell you about it sometime, it’s really quite interesting.”

 

John hums, feigning disinterest, sitting at a park bench, whilst the lad took the other end, not once showing discomfort with having to hold his items without paying special attention to them.

 

They both sat in companionable silence for about 2 minutes before John could detect the bloke’s barely contained energy whilst he juggles his leg. It went on like that until the whole bench in its entirety is vibrating, and that’s when John has had enough.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

“Sherlock.” The lad pipes in.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“That is my name.” He simply announces, daring John with his eyes to contradict. “I’m sure we’re familiarized enough to be able to regard each other with slight recognition with the use of our names, don’t you…?” And he makes an impatient hand gesture, indicating for John to reciprocate.

 

John wasn’t convinced.

 

“AND YOU WILLINGLY KILLED A MAN FOR ME. I DESERVE TO KNOW THE NAME OF MY SAVIOU- Mmmmph.” John had hastily clamped down Sherlock’s mouth before they get some unneeded attention, and it looked to be a good call too, considering the cautious glances some women with strollers had thrown at them. To which John had to stutter out an apology.

 

“Why did you _do_ that?” John had hissed, once he noticed that there hadn’t been anyone who could overhear their whole conversation within the two-mile radius...well...other than the taxi cabs, and the CCTV cameras that he could’ve sworn had been looking in the other direction a minute ago.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, soothing at the redenned skin on the bottom half of his face (that John absolutely does not care to be the cause of), eyeing John with the ever-familiar “you’re being an idiot” look.

 

John inwardly groans, swiping at his face.

 

“John Watson.” There.

 

The bloke surprisingly smiles, snatching up John’s left hand (astoundingly tremor- _less_ ), and pumping it for good measures.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, a pleasure to meet you.” A pause. “John.”

 

He hears a vague ping before Sherlock all but shoves his order of what looked to be a hefty sandwich, and a cup of tea, judging by the long string that came with a square label on the side.

 

“Hey, what are you - “

 

“There’s been another hit with a pregnant woman, I’ll be at Bart’s.” Came Sherlock’s reply.

 

“And what am I supposed to do with all these.” And that got a reaction out of Sherlock to pause from his mid-stride, and grabbing John’s abandoned brew that sat loosely by his right hand. “Hey!”

 

Sherlock raises the brew up to his head, mumbling a smug “cheers” before taking a sip of the concoction. He looked mildly surprised the moment the rim was off his lips.

 

“Black, two sugars?” He had all but questioned, spoken with a whisper of undertone to them.

 

John nods in affirmation, though slightly confused.

 

And Sherlock was off, along with a large gust of the wind, long coat flapping from behind.

 

John gave a quiet giggle to himself.

 

“Bloody dramatic even whilst he’s exiting.” He muses, taking a bite of the sandwich. His mouth instantly waters, remembering that he couldn’t quite manage procuring a half-decent lunch (as luxurious, and as juicy as this one), much else a cup of Darjeeling in just the right temperature, and flavour he would’ve purchased for himself. He really should consider asking how the bloke knows all these things about him.

  
  


-

 

The one encounter turned to two, and the next thing that John notices is that he’s been continuously forgetting his cane. It was in no way intentional, but he realizes that his leg had been acting up less, and he has a vague inkling of what the reason could probably be. However, being the stubborn man that he is, refuses to acknowledge how he’d been smiling more often than he has in months.

 

Sherlock turned out to be much a better companion than he had initially seemed. Because behind the prickly personality, and general disregard for John's own well-being, Sherlock’s also quite clever while he spouts off details about John’s life like he has known John for years, rather than months. One would think that he’s been spying on John for a while, and when he had brought it up one day, Sherlock had merely scoffed at the idea.

 

“Oh please, if I had been spying on you all those months ago, why then would I decide to confront you at this particular time?” He was clearly pouting now, head tucked in between his legs. He had taken the liberty in situating himself on John’s recliner, coat tucked protectively around him like a shield. Okay, so he might’ve misjudged his familiarity with the bloke quite a bit. “Additionally, you aren’t much different from the average Joe to be the muse of my interest."

 

And the words stung a bit, but he realizes that Sherlock hadn’t been looking at him whilst he said those hurtful words, which could indicate that the only reason that Sherlock had been defensive was due to what John had said prior.

 

Silence hangs over them for a what seemed like ages before Sherlock decides to hop off from his current position. John frowned, scratching at the back of his neck.

 

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?”

 

And that got Sherlock to pause when he had been a step away from the door.

 

“You’ve been really lovely, and I was just trying to cock it all up by acting like a dick.”

 

And the next thing he knows, Sherlock had been full-blown laughing as he turns towards John. He sounded childish, bright, and fresh, almost years younger. This had been the first time that he’s seen Sherlock laugh, like ever, and he was a tiny bit pleased with himself to have the privilege to not only be the sole recipient of it, but also be the one to extract it from the other man.

 

“I shouldn’t be laughing.” Sherlock says after his fit, wiping at the corner of his eye. However, one look at John, he starts all over again. “John Watson, only you’re capable of inserting phallic synonyms in a sentence.”

 

John sputters, turning beet red.

 

“I wasn’t intending to, I mean, I - “

 

Sherlock, however, beats him to it, smiling shyly.

 

“Though one could _not_ just ignore an apology when one hears it.” Then, “You’re an idiot.”

 

And they were both laughing. John doesn’t know why though, because Sherlock has regarded him as such in a few occasions, but this one sounded familiar - an implicit message that only he and Sherlock knew the meaning of. He knows he’s been forgiven.

 

As they were preparing to leave for one of Sherlock’s cases - and yes, he has been invited by the curly-haired git to be his assistant after spelling out to John that he could use some man power in his area of expertise - a triple murder with two possible suspects, to which his companion had growled angrily at the Met’s incompetence, and that both men had been innocent, had clearly been framed, and that it was the workings of someone close to the both of them that could’ve committed the crime.

 

It’s as Sherlock hailed a cab (he’s incredibly talented at whipping them out from out of nowhere) that he looks down on John, smiling crookedly.

 

“Really lovely, you say?” He mutters, devilishly enjoying the flush that crept up John’s neck.

 

To which John rolls his eyes, as he trudges off inside without another word, hearing traces of Sherlock’s amusement whilst following after him.

  


-

 

“That was the most ridiculous thing, that I have ever done.” He breathes his fill of air, eyeing Sherlock whilst they catch their breaths.

 

Sherlock giggles a boyish rumble.

 

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

 

To which John shakes his head, smirking.

 

“It wasn’t just me.” Then after a beat, John’s stomach rumbles in the background. Ironically, they had been the only one present in the hallways, which ricocheted a prominent echo on all corners. He coughs awkwardly, hitching a thumb towards his door. “Well, I better, erm, you know?”

 

However, Sherlock’s expression falters slightly at the words, expression guarded. He looks down at his feet before eyeing John carefully.

 

“If you, erm…” his cheekbones tinges into a soft pink. He looked just about ready to bolt, but he somehow gathers courage, whilst eyeing John’s attentive gaze.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I know a place, to um, eat, if you’re interested?” His tone faltered slightly, clearly uncomfortable with having to ask. And just as John had opened his mouth to respond, Sherlock continued to speak. “It’s around the corner. The owner always gives me free portions.”

 

“Well -”

 

“And you don’t need to pay as well, Angelo aspires to provide me with as much meals as I’m capable of handling, free of charge. I’m sure you could get the same, because you’re with me, but I could handle your meal if you’d like?” Sherlock doesn’t attempt to look at John, just pays close attention to the state of his oxfords.

 

To which John was really tempted to chuckle, but noticing Sherlock’s clear inexperience of the whole endeavor, he merely smiles, nodding eagerly.

 

“You had me at free portions.”

 

Upon hearing John’s response, Sherlock regains some semblance of balance, grinning wolfishly.

 

“Excellent. I’ve nothing close to anything edible at the moment, and Italian seems the better way to go.”

 

John eyes him critically, waving at his friend’s lithe frame.

 

“From the looks of it, you never have much of anything _to_ eat.”

 

Sherlock shrugs, undeterred.

 

“Might as well make use of the rare opportunity to feed me up, then, _Doctor_.” And he was bulleting towards the nearest elevator with a wink, completely ignoring the fact that John had shorter legs. The git.

  


-

 

“Huh.” He’d never once set foot inside Sherlock’s flat, and yet he couldn’t help but feel a strange pang at the sight of it all; there had been only one bedroom, and a kitchen. The bedroom door was slightly opened, however, John had been more invested in what appeared to be a storage house - rather than a flat -  in front of him; books had been strewn all over rustic furniture instead of having a place in the bookshelves, there are pale boxes that had several thick manila folders on them with their dedicated labels, as well as several kinds of baleful, ill-looking plants that slithered their branches all over the table they occupied, and the kitchen was filled with all sorts of corrosive-looking materials encased within test tubes, as well as Erlenmeyers, and Volumetric Flasks. At the center of it all, there had also appears to be an expensive-looking microscope that he'd only seen in the labs at Bart's. It felt strange to find comfort underneath all the chaotic mess. This spoke volumes due to his habitual need to keep things meticulously organized.

 

“Not what you’d expected, I presume.” Sherlock hazards, eyeing John warily. His stance had indicated how uncomfortable he is, gazing unfamiliarly towards every corner as though it was the first time he’d realized the clutter (which it most certainly could have been). And before John could have the opportunity to make a comment, Sherlock gathers an armful of paperwork, and all but shoves them haphazardly into a corner. “I guess I could clean things up, a bit.” he says whilst resuming to stab a knife towards the wall through the largest loop of his key hole as a placeholder. Practical, John inwardly smiles.

 

“Well,” Sherlock jumps by the sound of his voice, steeling himself rigidly in place, not looking at John. “It certainly is something, this.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t try to make a move, just sort of stands there through John’s musings, hands idly shoving themselves inside his trouser pockets.

“I would’ve imagined that you’d been preserving a body here, or something, but other than that” he nods towards a preserved arachnid inside a transparent lid. “- this is relatively tamed from what I imagined what the interior of your flat could be.”

 

And that got a surprised laugh from Sherlock, as well as a barely hidden sigh, pivoting himself to see John better, shoulders melting into a slightly relaxed state that’s close to what John’s used to. There must have been something else if he still appeared to be slightly restless.

 

Sherlock chews on his lower lip.

 

“Now, John, you’ve barely perused the flat to make a complete conclusion.” He heads slowly towards the metal fridge. “Care to do the honours?” he asks, whilst smirking, though he did appear to be slightly cautious, scanning every corner of John’s face for any signs of discomfort.

 

John’s mouth ran agape.

 

“You’re...not kidding..” His voice sounded surprisingly calm. Would Sherlock really keep a body in the fridge? “A whole body?”

 

Sherlock appears to consider his words.

 

“Not the whole of it, as I wouldn’t have enough space for essentials, but most parts.” A beat passes. “Problem?”

 

John shuffles his feet from where he stood, scratching the back of his neck. He's not exactly sure on what _to_ say. On one hand, he vaguely realizes that other than his friend’s consulting business, he does look to be the eccentric type to preserve various body parts for experimentation, he could also be a fetishist in regards to decaying cadavers, or he could be a cannibal, and he had only be luring John just so that he could eat him. However, deciding against it, and recalling Sherlock’s need for essentials in his fridge, he decides to make a choice.

 

“Well, it’s either you’re a fetishist, or a cannibal,” John starts, smiling at his feet. “But I still can’t quite decide which one.”

 

His companion chortles a low timber.

 

“I’d leave you to your deductions.” He seems to regain equilibrium within his gigantic brain to recognize John’s jest. “Right then,” he waves lazily towards the fridge. “- if you’ll please do the honours.”

 

“Oh, for god’s sake.” John clutches on the upper part of his nose, eyes clenched. “I really don’t have to do it, do I?”

 

“Then what type of host would I be if I don’t provide you the full tour?” His friend chided, shaking his head almost scoldingly. “Now then, off you go.” And the tension appeared to ease even further, immediately catching John’s playful indecisiveness.

  
  


-

 

Just after John was about to retire for the night, Sherlock’s phone beeps with a text from Lestrade that only had an address.

 

Sherlock, the nutter, jumps towards his fancy coat rack, throwing it on, along with his trademark blue scarf, not paying much attention on what had jumped out from his pocket.

 

John, however, noticed (which is quite a change from the norm as it is), picking up the small object that could only be Sherlock’s magnifying lens that he doesn’t ever leave without, on any of his cases. It felt slim, tangibly familiar, almost breakable, but compact and sturdy, and looked to have costed a great deal, taking notice of its weight and appearance.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

The bloke barely pauses for a second, eyeing John almost offendingly for interrupting him mid-stride.

 

John smiles, waving the mini item, throwing the material towards his friend without a second thought.

 

Sherlock mirrors the expression, catching the object with skilled precision, catching it in mid-air, and tucking it within his coat pocket.

 

“Come on John, Lestrade’s getting desperate. He doesn’t just text an address unless he feels adamantly appalled with his team’s incompetence.” And he was out of the door faster than John could blink, leaving him yet again, to hail some taxi that just magically appeared on an empty road.

 

“You know you’ve got to someday show me how you do that.” He says, as he buckles his seat.

 

Without question Sherlock smirks behind his mobile, lazily making eye contact, sharp eyes swallowed by the bluish teal flow, showcasing the chrome pigments beneath them.

 

“I don’t think further growth is available for somebody your age.”

 

To which John sticks his middle finger briefly, huffing as he faces the window. Arsehole.

 

-

  


Post-case had always been something of a normality to John now. He was was delegated for coffee attendee, whilst Sherlock crashes on one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs after staying up for more than three days before uncovering that the step-mother had arranged some heist to convince her ex-husband that he’d be safer with her, than without. It turned out to be like any foreign dramas that John’s ever watched during his intimate time with crap telly, and had ended up in desperate tears, and the inevitable separation.

 

Just as John was set to arrive to hand Sherlock his regular order, he sees the detective with his head tucked towards his chest, his magnifying lens cupped haphazardly towards one of his massive hand that took up the chair that John had been occupying moments ago. The lens, leaning towards the edge, lands on the floor with a soft click.

 

John's head gives a fond shake, attempting to juggle the cuppas towards his friend, but Lestrade had beaten him to it, crouching down to pick up the said object, only to have Sherlock to awoken from his mid-slumber, with glazed, pink-rimmed eyes, snatching his treasured material with a quiet hiss before Lestrade could ever make contact with it.

 

He doesn’t bother making eye-contact, just glares at Lestrade’s back, snatching his appointed cup from John, and heads off towards the nearest exit.

 

Lestrade eyes John questioningly. He replies with a confused shrug, trailing after the madman without a second thought.

  


-

 

“I’ve had this ever since I was a young boy.” Sherlock confesses, just as John and he had entered the lift, hands quietly fiddling with the tiny material. “I can never really figure out where I’ve got it, but for some inane reason, I can’t see myself without it being in my possession.”

 

John hums, urging Sherlock to continue.

 

“I’ve tried asking around, but nobody’s ever given me a linear answer. What a sentimental fool I must be.” He regards the floor with a sad smile, shaking his head.

 

John frowns, squeezing his friend’s shoulder. Sherlock looks towards the point of contact, before eyeing John, confusion lacing his eyes.

 

John smiles a reassuring smile. _I understand_.

 

-

 

“You know I’m still waiting.” John says, mid-type on one of their cases.

 

Sherlock hums, coat tucked neat around him, his shoulders hunched slightly as he tries to make sense of some crap late-night trial case.

 

“For you to admit that a little knowledge of the Solar System and you’d have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker.”

 

To which Sherlock snipes jokingly.

 

“Didn’t do _you_ any good, did it?”

 

“No,” John acquiesces. “But I’m not the world’s only consulting detective.”

 

Sherlock smiles approvingly.

 

“True.”

 

“You know, I think this deserves some tea, and snacks.” John abruptly announces, inspecting Sherlock’s fridge, before feeling his eyes water at the offending stinge. “Actually, you know what, I’ll be out the shops to do same late night shopping, want anything?” He asks, turning his attention towards Sherlock, who has yet to make eye contact ever since their arrival.

 

“I’ll buy the milk.” He offers.

 

“And-And some crisps, maybe?” John cautiously throws in. Sherlock never offers to buy anything out, even when John has mostly inhabited Sherlock’s flat these days. My god, they’re starting to sound like an old married couple at this rate.

 

Sherlock makes an affirming hum.

 

“Alright, ta.” John smiles, heading towards the door. “I probably have some leftover takeaway that I can bring in to share, and something for pasta, be back in a bit.”

 

-

 

As to why he hadn’t expected being instantly manhandled towards a suspicious looking van to a swimming pool with a bomb strapped to his chest, he appears to be be losing his touch.

 

A pair of earbuds is instantly being shoved towards his right ear.

 

“Hey ho, Johnny boy. How’s our favourite little soldier today?” John had a blindfold on, but he was held down by his captor to make any sort of maneuvering an impossibility, that and the gun pressed too closely to his temple. He is vaguely aware that the voice was coming from the earphones, and that the bloke hadn’t been speaking to him directly.

 

To John’s lack of reply, the voice sounded more amused than anything.

 

“Good, I imagine. He’s almost here, your dark knight in tainted armour. But then I presume you’re already aware of that, aren’t you, Princess?” And there will never come a time where he will never regret not being able to throttle the other man for regarding him with such a vile sounding nickname.

 

“What do you want, Moriarty?” He half-growls, feeling the sting of whomever’s grip tighten as he speaks.

 

“Oh, so you are aware of who I am.” Moriarty replies with a grotesque shrill to it. “Well, I assure you, you wouldn’t have to for very long.” A quiet click from another location catches John’s attention. “And here comes your sir knight.” Then, for good measures. “ Places boyo, the tale is just about to reach its first climax.”

  


-

 

He could hear some faint murmuring, before John was thrown towards the pool doors. He could smell mainly chlorine, which he supposes should be typical, blue water, oh, and Sherlock pointing his gun towards him. Fantastic.

 

“Evening.” He finds himself parroting after the sadistic psychopath.

 

He could barely see Sherlock’s face as it transitions from arrogantly smug, to confusion, to something vulnerable, almost breakable as he recognizes who was in front of him. The bloke lowers the gun to his side.

 

“John, what the hell -”

 

“Bet you never saw _this_ coming.” My god, the words tasted like acid in his mouth.

 

He eyes Sherlock carefully, as he crowds closer to inspect him with laser sharp focus, albeit with a touch of hurt on the side. John can only smirk at the thoughts that Sherlock might’ve been thinking then, however disappointed he might’ve been at his friend to believe such fabrications.

 

“You may reveal it now, Johnny boy.” Moriarty commands. “Only fair our little hero receives his rightful present.”

 

John mechanically makes a show of opening up his coat to bring Sherlock’s attention towards the semtex attached to his torso. He almost misses the slightly relieved sigh that leaves his companion’s mouth, before tensing once more the moment he brings his attention towards the bomb.

 

“What...would you like me… to make him say… next..?”

 

When Sherlock doesn’t reply.

 

“Gottle o’ geer, Gottle o’ geer, Gottle o’ geer..” He finds the slight tremor in his voice as he attempts the last phrase.

 

“Stop it.”

 

John idly wonders how he’s still able to go on, even after feeling the adrenaline spike his system with the big reveal. Although he has been aware of the item that was strapped to him, having Sherlock look visibly frightened at the sight had made the situation all the more realistic to John himself.

 

“Nice touch, this: the pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him.” He tries not to flinch as he continued speaking. “I can stop John Watson too.” There was a red beam that settles closely to where the main chunk of the explosives were located. “Stop his heart.”

 

Sherlock appears to see it too, trying to eye all directions, but focusing mostly on the very spot.

 

“Who _are_ you?”

 

And the conductor makes the appearance.

 

“Jim Moriarty, Hi!”

 

-

 

“Probably my answer’s crossed yours.”

 

The seconds ticked in loudly in John’s ears. Sherlock’s managed to get the bomb off his chest, and has savagely thrown it towards the gap between the two of them, and Moriarty.

 

Sherlock eyes him for confirmation, before directing the gun towards the bomb, shifting his attention towards Moriarty, then back to the bomb.

 

It only took after John’s stiff nod does Sherlock take the shot, and for John to push the bloke out of the way, and into the pool. He feels a vague stinging on his back before darkness consumes him.

 

&

 

Sherlock heard it through muffled ears when the explosion had occurred. The chlorinated water had instantly festered up his nose, and the inner canals of his eardrums. For a second he had been lost to the sensation, until he remembers his own purpose, swimming his way back sluggishly towards the thick sheet of water.

 

His eyes immediately realizes that he’s lost sight of his friend, and his heart started to jump start at the thought. Could he have been dead? He was the one who pushed Sherlock towards the pool, and that would only be the logical explanation as to why he hasn’t resurfaced yet, that or he drowned. Either way, things are not looking up for Sherlock.

 

“John!” he screams behind a croaky throat. “John! Where are you?” Where could he be!?!? If he dies, it will all be Sherlock’s fault, and he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he ever let his only friend get harmed. “JOHN!” The guilt will eat away at his soul, if such thing ever existed. He will be tempted to numb the pain of the loss again, and try to revert back to feeling empty, dejected, and alone. It’s been so long since he’s felt like this.

 

When had he ever felt like this… exactly? The very fact of the unknown scares him to death, and he needs to see John to know whether he’s already going mad out of his mind with all the inconsistencies in his memories.

 

His ears were ringing, but he still couldn’t find himself to give up until he is given physical examination of John Watson’s very dead body on a slab.

 

Just as he thinks that he’s lost all hope of finding his friend amongst gritty debris, Sherlock does a double-take, seeing a floating lump a few meters away from him. Pushing away all rational thought, he immediately dives towards the floating object, making out a head, and a set of limbs. John! He doesn’t even care whether he’s got two broken wrists, and a mild-concussion on the side of his head from the impact, all he could think about was John. And how he needs him breathing again, at least until the paramedics arrive to get him fixed up.

 

He messily wades towards the surface, whilst dragging the unconscious form towards the surface, shaking as he does so.

 

He lifts John towards the pale tiles, vaguely realising the blood that covered his fingertips. He needed to know whether he was alive, no matter what.

 

“Oh dear.” He hears his brother’s voice in the background, as he attempts to expel the water from John’s lungs.

 

“S-Stay away from this, Mycroft.” Sherlock snaps, lacking the usual annoyance in his tone, just the tremor of fear he hasn’t felt all throughout his bones in a long time. “I c-can save him, I will.”

 

But, as always, his brother doesn’t listen, refuses to listen.

 

“To think that one soul had successfully found his other half after such a long separation. How astounding, brother mine. I rather think some form of congratulations must be prepared. Do you fancy a lunch with your Doctor, once he’s well?”

 

He pauses when he sees John’s chest move tiny increments, but at least safe out of harm's way.

 

“What are you blabbering on about again, Mycroft.” He half-heartedly snipes. He’s a tiny bit relieved to see a familiar face, even if it had been his brother - not that he’d been willing to admit any of that out loud. “Mummy had claimed that having fatuous beliefs of being granted a soul mate, and let alone keep them until death is a thing of fairy tales. Haven’t you learned from that yet?”

 

“And what about you, brother mine? Haven’t you once believed it so, with John?” Mycroft gives a slight tilt of the head, forever inquiring, forever searching. “Or have you simply deleted that fact altogether?”

 

“What are you talking about, I -” Met him the first time at in front of that bloody elevator - how cliche it might’ve sounded. Did you know that he killed a man for me, when we’ve barely spoken a word with each other? But he couldn’t get his own mouth to form, let alone vocalize the words. Why?

 

He feels a faint stirring, and he immediately connects his gaze with the half-conscious lump beneath him. He sees nothing but chrome focused entirely on him, as he is taken in by the tide of fragmented shards of memories that he thought he’d lost all those years ago.

  


-

 

_”Darling boy, this is your other half, John Watson.” His mother had proclaimed heartily, albeit with a slightly disbelieving tilt at the corners of her eyes._

 

_A blonde boy pokes his head from behind his mother’s skirt, flushed slightly, all dressed up in an overused suit that looked a smidge too small for the boy._

 

_Sherlock hates him instantly. Hates him because he is taller than Sherlock, older than Sherlock, and has seen more of the world than him, knows more things, not too much, but more all the same._

 

_“No.” he simply states. No, he will not marry this man, and no, he will never be Sherlock’s ‘soulmate’._

 

_He disappears to the gardens to his main bolthole that neither Mummy, or Fat Mycroft could ever hope of ever discovering. At least until he discovers a new one._

 

_He curls up into a small ball, hoping that the name of John Watson would dissipate from his brilliant mind. His mate._

 

-

 

_”Here, I’ve got you something.” John looked a bit trepid, fiddling anxiously with a small object behind him, Sherlock notes._

 

_“If it’s a closed fist like those insipid buffoons, you could keep it.” He says, not eyeing John directly. His ribs still felt sore even after healing a few days. He was in the middle of dissecting the dead squirrel that he’d discovered under dry leaves in the forest, and it’s not yet reached rigor mortis, which is a slight improvement from the half-mained bird he’d discovered a few weeks back._

 

_John’s jaw instantly clenches, shoving the small material beside Sherlock, eyes darkening, and nose flaring._

 

_“Be sure to shower me with thanks later, you wanker.” The bloke petulantly points out before making a mad dash towards the door._

 

_Sherlock waited a few seconds before curiosity has gotten the best of him (but then again, when has it not?), hands clasping immediately at the black compact object beside him. The squirrel could wait a few minutes._

 

 _Slowly, he holds on to either sides with opposite hands, sliding the material open. It’s glass-like and cylindrical in the inside, if a bit inverted to a convex slope. Aha! It’s a magnifying lens (he has always wanted one of these), his heart leapt with joy for his new toy. And he begrudgingly has John_ **_Hamish_ ** _\- he hates the middle name, so Sherlock would heedlessly refer to it as such - Watson to thank for that._

 

_Even if a little, the blonde boy can be tolerable. Especially when he provides Sherlock with presents for events other than his birthday._

 

-

 

_Since Sherlock had flat-out refused for John to wear an imitation beard - since they are offending unattractive, and scratchy - Sherlock looked around his box of things for something that could identify John as one of his own._

 

_It took a few minutes of relentless searching until Sherlock tosses a pair of skull keychain towards John, who caught it skittishly (due to past adventures with Sherlock), before identifying that it’s safe for holding. He raises a brow at his mate._

 

_“A keychain?”_

 

_Sherlock smirks, virescent gaze glittering merrily under the sunlight._

 

_“A badge.”_

 

-

 

_Just as it had reached an hour after the appointed time, Sherlock sits on the same side across John, who was quietly tapping at his phone._

 

_“Go ahead, you can say it.” John growls after a few long moments of silence._

 

_“That what?” Sherlock questions, raising a brow._

 

_“I told you so, goddamnit you can say I told you so.”_

 

_Sherlock inwardly debates having to say it, because it was true. Sherlock’s hunch about the recent female companion that John had been seeing had already met with her soulmate months after they began dating. However, when he'd told John about it, he merely shrugged Sherlock off whilst he dresses for the next date._

 

_“Well you’ve got to admit,” he chews on his lower lip. “I told you so.”_

 

_But John had looked angrier._

 

_“Case in point, you shouldn’t have said it.” His mate hisses._

 

_“Well I did.” Then. “Problem?”_

 

_Before John could get another word out, the waitress comes along, deliberately made a showcase of her fake breasts by pushing them up as she approached, batting her lashes at John, who literally had smoke coming out of his ears. Good, he hasn’t noticed her._

 

_“Well, since you’re already here, might as well order for each other then, shall we?” He sarcastically snarls._

 

_The waitress appeared to have visibly deflated at the sound, coughing slightly before inquiring them for their orders._

 

_“When was the last time you ate?” John asks, smiling politely at the woman, before eyeing Sherlock, daring him to provide John with a half-baked answer._

 

_He sighs._

 

_“Last night, the spaghetti and meatballs that your mother had so graciously dropped off upon your command.” He rolls his eyes._

 

_“So you don’t feel like eating now?”_

 

_“Not till tomorrow morning.” He affirms, tapping idly at his thighs._

 

_John mirrors his sigh._

 

_“He’ll have coffee, black, two sugars, please.” Then offered the menu to Sherlock, who refuses it, showering in the embarassment that the waitress must’ve been feeling. John still hasn’t diverted his attention from Sherlock just yet._

 

 _“And he’ll have seasonal pastrami on rye, extra bacon, less onions, and darjeeling tea, no milk, no sugar, if you please.” And since he couldn’t resist, he smirks as John catches on what he was about to do. “If you were looking into bringing John to you and your boyfriend’s menage trois, he already has a mate, and if he_ **_was_ ** _interested, I highly doubt your boyfriend could keep up with all those concentrated sugars you’d been feeding him.” She was gone within seconds, mascara running down her cheeks as she headed to the employee loo for a wash._

 

_“Sherlock.”_

 

_He meets eyes with his partner, and expected to get an earful. However._

 

_“How did you know all those things about her boyfriend?”_

 

_And slowly, they found themselves sitting on the same side, whilst Sherlock deduces anybody of John’s liking, and enjoying every moment of it._

 

-

 

_They were underneath the stars when the revelation had happened. John had signed himself off to the army for his pre-doctoral education, and Sherlock had already decided on Yale for his chosen University to get his PhD in Chemistry, amongst other things. His head was tucked on the curve of John’s neck, pretending that the world is not going to end if he so much as let go of his boyfriend._

 

_“I don’t like this.” He confesses quietly, because only John is permitted to hear all of this, all the words Sherlock himself is incapable of screaming towards a large body of ocean or... people._

 

_“You don’t like a lot of things.” John whispers back._

 

_“I don’t like people, and yet” he curses internally that a thin sheet had developed behind his closed eyelids. “ - here you are.”_

 

_“Shut up.” John replies with a chuckle, voice still soft, and tender. He grips more firmly on the hold he had on Sherlock's waist. “You like having me around.”_

 

_“Having been assigned a perpetual mother hen for it all.” He finds himself humming. “Mummy could’ve done worse.”_

 

_However, John changes the subject anyways, neck transitioning to a nice shade of pink._

 

_“So…” He begins slowly. “I’m not people, then?”_

 

_“No,” Sherlock replies in meaningful reminiscence, watching John watch him with awe, with reverence, with love. Watching himself be reflected in them, mirroring the same expression that only John’s allowed to witness. “- you’re not.”_

 

-

 

He goes back into himself to realize that they’re both already being fussed over by the paramedics, and he’s still looking into John’s eyes, twinkling with mirth as well as the same recognition he feels. He simply couldn't look away, taking note of the wasted years they could've met each other again, the times where they hadn't recognized the other.

 

John’s smirk comes lazily.

 

_“Miss me?”_

 

And they resumed their lives together from there, moving out of the two separate flats they inhabited, and into Baker Street where they’ve agreed to the second bedroom, only because Sherlock had decided that he needed a lab. Close enough, he supposes.

  


-

 

 **End**.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the story!
> 
> Had there been a particular scene that had surprised you? What had you initially thought?
> 
> As always guys, your comments are always treasured and appreciated. Please leave a word or two below on whether you liked it or hated it, or whatever you fancy.
> 
> I've switched up my tumblr username to: consultingpigeon if you guys are more interested in leaving a word there. Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story, and I hope you all have a great summer!
> 
> P.S. As this is my summer break, I will try to write more (hopefully), and provide more updates for you guys. All the love! xx


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